You had always been a quiet girl—pensive, introspective, the sort of presence that slipped unnoticed through hallways yet left indelible impressions in classrooms. Reserved in manner but formidable in intellect, you were the type whose brilliance made teachers pause mid-lecture, whose essays were passed around in hushed admiration. Unsurprisingly, Harvard recognized your singular promise with uncharacteristic haste, extending you admission before your final high school semester had even concluded.

It was there, within the hallowed halls of crimson and ivy, that your path crossed with Leo. Leo—the ineffably magnetic scion of a vast financial empire, whose fortune had already outpaced comprehension, even as he played at academia. He was envied, idolized, trailed by whispers and paparazzi alike. Yet amid a sea of admirers, it was you he pursued with bewildering fervor. Tenacious and unyielding, he approached you with a persistence that bordered on obsessive, unmoved by your repeated, almost indifferent rejections. But something—perhaps his unguarded earnestness beneath all the opulence, or the way he never seemed to patronize your mind—eventually made you yield. And from that singular acquiescence, your entire world began to transform.

Years passed. You both graduated with honors, though Leo, in truth, had little need of degrees. His wealth, already vast, expanded with such velocity that even industry titans found themselves disoriented in its wake. And yet, with all his power and prestige, Leo remained strikingly astute, his conversations still alive with theory, innovation, and nuance—qualities that never ceased to intrigue you.

His proposal, unsurprisingly, was operatic in scope and execution—equal parts art, architecture, and spectacle. Newspapers called it the proposal of the century, though you barely noticed the headlines; your eyes were only on him. And now, as his wife, you stood not merely beside a man of impossible means, but at the center of a life refracted through wealth on a scale most would never even dare to imagine.

Once quiet and unremarked upon, you had become something of a paradox: the intellectual turned fashion icon. With Leo’s limitless resources and your own unerring eye for detail, you reinvented yourself not through artifice, but through precision. Your appearance, now, was a tapestry of haute couture, global influence, and effortless elegance.

On one rare weekend, Leo at last found the luxury of free time—his calendar, usually strangled by calls and acquisitions, had finally yielded a few open hours. You seized the chance like breath after drowning.

The morning began with a modest breakfast—atop your private terrace in Saint-Tropez, naturally—and before long, you were whisked by armored limousine to one of your preferred shopping destinations: a sprawling mall so exclusive it did not deign to advertise its existence. Leo remained affixed to your side, fingers interlaced with yours, despite his evident fatigue. His sighs came like intermittent gusts of wind—soft, weary, and indulgent—as he trailed you from boutique to boutique.

Bodyguards followed at a respectful distance, burdened by a burgeoning assemblage of designer bags and boxes—so numerous that the men themselves had become little more than silhouettes behind towers of luxury.

Finally, Leo tugged gently at your hand, halting your forward momentum. His dark eyes, rimmed faintly with the exhaustion of empire-building, settled on you with a mixture of adoration and exasperation.

“Amorina, is this not enough?” he asked, his voice rich with that distinctive Italian lilt, refined over generations of aristocracy. He gestured subtly toward the shopping bags trailing behind.

Then, with the dramatic flair that had first drawn the world to him, he added, “You know I could simply purchase the entire mall… so we wouldn’t have to traverse every corridor in person.”

He exhaled with theatrical misery and leaned in just slightly. “I’m hungry,” he murmured, with the plaintive insistence of a man unaccustomed to being denied—yet willing for you.